Nailed to the Cross
by ismisesarah
Summary: "Forgive me, Jean, wherever you are. Forgive me for my failures,"


**AN:** I've tried countless times to write this scenario but none of them have ever felt _right_ to me. Regardless, the idea has constantly followed me around, so I thought I'd give it one more attempt. I can also only apologise for Jack. I find him so difficult to write and I only hope he doesn't come across as too unbelievable.

* * *

The rain always seemed colder in Maycomb than Nashville, though perhaps he was simply more attuned to his surroundings here. He had long ago left the oppressive little town, but it would always remain a part of him. It was where he had had been born, where he first discovered his desire to heal the sick, where he had fallen in love with her. Maycomb was part of his blood.

It was just over a year since his main reason for returning to Maycomb each year had gone, just over a year since the light that had been Jean Finch went out. He had found her utterly intoxicating. He had wanted to drink in every last detail of her while in their home, to create a perfect montage of images that he could play on repeat on lonely nights. He had loved her silently and intensely for seven years, never once doing anything that would hurt her marriage to his brother. He loved her too much to cause her any pain.

And then, just like that, she had died. Suddenly, quietly, and alone she had left this world.

At the beginning he had blamed himself. Oh, how he had blamed himself. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake. Had he not been trained to recognise signs of ill health? Had he not spent hours and hours in the library in Boston studying every illness and malady under the sun? How had he not questioned her shortness of breath on the phone when he called only that morning? Why had he believed her when she said she had just been chasing Scout around the house as she learned to walk? How had he been so _blind_?

"Forgive me, Jean, wherever you are. Forgive me for my failures," Jack spoke to no one. The rain was falling heavy now, and there wasn't a soul around. Atticus knew he had arrived on the 9 o'clock train, but he had turned down a ride home from the station. There was one stop he had to make first.

Her grave was right under an oak tree. Atticus had requested the plot especially saying that Jean had always loved oak trees. Jack appreciated the shelter it gave her, almost as if it were looking out for her in the afterlife in a way that he hadn't. How strange life was to change so abruptly. Only one year ago she was greeting him excitedly on the porch; this year he was staring at her name carved on a headstone. A headstone that Atticus had had sent back five times until it was perfect.

"Life has a cruel way of turning out doesn't it, my girl?" He spoke louder now, confident that he was alone. He sighed. "You didn't deserve this, Jean."

It sounded like a foolish thing to say. Surely no one deserved to die, but in her case it seemed especially cruel. A happily married wife and mother didn't deserve to have her life cut short at twenty-eight. She had had so many years still to live, so many memories still to make, so much love still to give. It had all been so cruelly stolen from her.

He reached out a hand and touched her headstone. "I hope you're happy, Jean. Wherever you are, I hope you're happy."

"So do I." A voice behind him made him spin round. Atticus was standing with an umbrella. How long he had been there Jack didn't know. He came to his side to offer shelter from the rain that only seemed to get heavier. Neither said a word, they just stood.

As they stood, Jack felt the guilt bubbling inside him again. Maybe if he'd noticed something they wouldn't be standing there. "Atticus, can you forgive me?" He asked, needing to share the burden he'd been carrying for over a year.

"Forgive you for what, brother?" Atticus answered. He never took his eyes off Jean's grave.

"That day, the day she died, I called that morning to see how Jem was getting along at school. She was out of breath on the phone. She told me she'd been chasing Scout around the house, and like a fool I believed her. Maybe if I'd questioned her we wouldn't be standing here." Jack said, his confession flowing freely out. He couldn't live with the guilt any longer.

He saw Atticus turn to him, fixing him with the stare that in younger years filled him with fear. "You couldn't have saved her, Jack. No one could. I need you to understand that. You couldn't have saved her," he repeated firmly.

"She was out of breath. She sounded tired. As a doctor I should have asked, I should have _known,_ "he carried on as though Atticus hadn't spoken a word. He felt his brother put a firm hand on his arm.

"Jack. There was nothin' you could have done. You couldn't have saved her. Please, brother, stop blaming yourself. I don't," Atticus said, easing only a portion of the guilt Jack still felt. How long would it take before he believed the truth behind Atticus' words?

Jack said nothing, only listened to the steady tap of rain on the umbrella. Atticus didn't blame him for Jean's death like he blamed himself, but his conscience still felt heavy. There was still something that needed to be said, something that had the potential to severely injure their relationship.

"I loved her, Atticus," he said the words, his heart beginning to race as they hung in the air.

"I know," Atticus replied simply.

Jack was taken aback. Maybe his brother hadn't fully understood. "I loved her more than a brother. I loved her like...like she was _my_ wife," he possibly added more fuel to the fire. There was a long minute where Atticus said nothing, only continued staring at his wife's grave. "That first Christmas after you were married and I came home I fell head over heels for her. I went back to Nashville and counted down the days until I would see her again. I'm ashamed to say this, Atticus, but I used to imagine that Jem and Scout were the children I had with her. I loved her."

He waited, watching Atticus breath, blink, swallow, and finally turn to him. There was a look in his eye, one he hadn't ever seen before.

"I know, Jack."

He felt his heart hit his stomach. For eight years Atticus had known, of course he had known.

He was a fool.


End file.
